The Fallacy of Normalcy
by Quirky Sort of Darkness
Summary: In which we explore Sherlock and John's completely normal relationship. Alphabetically.
1. Album

When John first met the enigmatic genius that was Sherlock Holmes, he knew that life was never going to be dull. Who needed the hum-drum routines of the 1950s nuclear family; every time John opened the door of 221B, it was a pot luck draw.

What would he find this time: the latest experiment gone awry; more bullet holes in the fireplace; another assassin getting blood on their darling ornate rug?

So why was it, with all these frankly alarming scenarios that John considered the norm, that this very moment in time, it felt like the most surreal experience he had ever been a part of.

"And this is when we went to the South of France. Sherlock had, most unfortunately, just fallen off a pier when this picture was taken," Mycroft said.

"No, I didn't. As I kept telling daddy, you pushed me."

John sat back on the sofa and sighed. How had he got himself in to this mess?

Oh, right. He made the fatal mistake of believing Sherlock.

It had started as any other morning in London. Awoken by the shrill demands of sirens wailing as they rushed down the street, John wandered in to the kitchen. There, he found a note on the fridge.

This, in retrospect should have been the first clue. Sherlock didn't hand-write messages. It wasted time.

Sherlock was going out— urgent business, naturally—and he should return by nightfall. Thinking nothing of it (stupid, _stupid_ John!), he opted to spend a lazy morning catching up on his reading, and then head in to town for groceries.

At around 10, there was a knock on the door. John limped to the door (not because of the alleged injury, you understand. He had been sitting at a funny angle on the armchair) and was greeted by a reluctant-looking Mycroft.

"Ah, good morning Jonathon."

"… Morning. Sorry, Sherlock is out."

Mycroft nodded. "Oh yes, I knew he wouldn't be." He pushed past John, and entered the living room. It was then he realised the box Mycroft carried.

"Oh, then you wanted to see me?"

"Not particularly. Milk and two sugars if you would, John.

John rolled his eyes and went to make the man a cup of tea. He returned moments later with two cups.

"Am I missing something here, Mycroft?"

"Oh, I warned Sherlock I would be coming here today. Bonding, you know. Well, of course he's pulled a disappearing act, as I predicted."

John observed the older gentleman. It made sense—rather than wear his usual suit and tie, Mycroft was wearing what could be considered "casual". Interestingly, Mycroft's "casual" was Sherlock's "smart". He was wearing a lavender shirt and black dress trousers. No jacket, no tie… but something indefinitely refined about the outfit. He clearly was not here on business.

"Right, well, I don't think he'll come home until late."

Mycroft smiled knowingly. John imagined it was the same smile Sherlock had to endure when Mycroft was in 'big brother' mode. "That's why I decided to spend time with his… lover instead."

"I'm not Sherlock's lover!"

"You're the closest he's ever getting to one."

To cut an hour long argument short, Mycroft had won. Now John was to act as his Sherlock substitute. The Holmes family seemed to have a genetic trait that needed to use John as a replacement. Still, replacing a human was a lot more flattering that replacing that blasted skull.

They were about fifteen minutes in to the first album when the door burst open. There stood Sherlock, in all his raging glory. He threw his coat on to a nearby table and glared at Mycroft. "Why are you still here?" he snarled.

Sherlock wore fury well as it turned out. His stormy blue eyes looked darker, heavier. Is face was flushed, and a deep crimson blush sat comfortably on his delicate cheekbones. His usually tousled hair was in chaotic disarray. He looked… utterly shaggable, actually.

"Sherlock, I thought you'd be out all day," Mycroft said, his voice oozing with sarcastic smarm.

"Why are you here?" he repeated through gritted teeth.

"If the mountain won't come to Mohammad, the mountain will harass Mohammad's boyfriend until Mohammad submits."

"I'm not his-" John began.

Sherlock shot John a look of "shut it". John sighed and went in to the kitchen to make more tea. This was why he didn't like children. He was surprised to see that Sherlock could break the glaring contest long enough to follow him. John opened the fridge door.

"He was obviously going to use you, John. Why didn't you see that coming? He was wearing his casual clothes for pity's sake! Surely that must have—"

"Just talk to him. He'll leave when he has what he wants."

"When was the last time you talked to Harry?"

John slammed the fridge shut. "That was uncalled for. _I_ have genuine reasons. _You_ are being a petulant child. He wants to spend time with you."

"Correction- he wants to spend time with _us_."

And that was how they had ended up in their current situation.

Strangely, John was having fun.

Donavon often told John that Sherlock was nothing more than a mechanical man without a heart (which was fine with Sherlock, as he often told everyone that Sally was a whore without any standards), and it was easy to believe her sometimes. In the end, Sherlock very rarely showed much more emotion than a wavering indifference.

It was moments like this that made John remember that Sherlock was human— the moments where he jumped with glee because he had something new to focus on; the moments where he growled in animalistic frustration because no one could match his startling intellect. And now, he could add to the list the adorable blush that formed whenever another little nugget of his past was brought up. John picked up a loose picture from the box. It showed a class of young boys, all about five years old, wearing a menagerie of different costumes. All the other boys were beaming at the camera, bar one little boy, who looked rather sullen in his cotton wool monstrosity.

"Oh yes, this was Sherlock at his first nativity play. He was the little lamb right there. St. Benedict's school for boys was the first school Sherlock was ever expelled from."

John glanced over to Sherlock and saw a proud smile beginning to bud. "What did you do?" he asked.

"I merely pointed out the flaws in the whole nativity story," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, you announced them during the birthing of Christ."

"What better time?"

John laughed. "You… you've always been like this, huh?"

Sherlock shrugged and put his head on John's. He nuzzled slightly, and looked at John softly. "Aren't you bored yet?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow quizzically at the pair. "Perhaps I should take my leave. I'll send Anthea to collect the box. You don't mind do you?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He simply got up and left. John sighed and moved away from Sherlock. Sherlock grinned and flopped back. He punched the air victoriously.

"Finally!"

"You used me, didn't you?" John asked.

"Slightly; intimacy is a sure-fire method of repelling Mycroft."

John laughed and picked up the next album- a red book with 'Teen years' embossed in gold. "So, what were you like as a teenager?"

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed the book. He threw it across the room. "That's enough of that," he said indefinitely. "Fancy an Indians? I know a good place in Soho. You can tell a good Indian restaurant by the spices they use."

"You're paying."

* * *

><p><strong>My first Sherlock fanfic, though I adore the series. Constructive criticism is welcome, and the rating may go up. It depends on how bold I'm feeling.<strong>

**Thank you for reading. Reviews are nice**

**-QSoD**


	2. Birthday

Birthdays always seemed to be a strange concept to Sherlock. He could understand celebrating a birth, as it was something of a so-called miracle. He just didn't quite grasp the need to celebrate on an annual basis. Surviving another year when you're like most of the population— young, healthy, rarely taking risks—seemed … ridiculous.  
>With John, it wasn't.<p>

He was young, but not as young as he could be. He wasn't exactly healthy, what with the war scars and weak immune system. As for taking risks…Sherlock admired the man's bravery above all—to go straight from Afghanistan to assisting Sherlock was surely an indication of a suicidal personality.

Thus, John deserved a birthday celebration.

If he could recall these things correctly, one needed banners, balloons, cake… and most importantly a gift.

A gift for John…

"MRS. HUDSON!"

The thundering of the landlady's feet running up the stairs was a strangely comforting sound. With her, she always brought food, a warm smile and a solution to Sherlock's problems.

"Really, Sherlock, do you have to be so loud? I'm at my wit's end with you! You my nerves aren't what they used to be," she said, shaking her head as she always did.

It was amazing that such a universal sign of disapproval was personalised by each person. Mrs. Hudson shook her head more to the left when she was genuinely annoyed, but when she wrung her hands together, it was a misplaced annoyance. Since she was leaning more on her right side (nothing to do with her hip, as she was taking more pharmaceutical narcotics of late), Sherlock could assume she didn't mind being called up.

"It's John's birthday on Wednesday," he said.

"Is it? Well that's nice! Will you be having a party? I could throw together some party foods if you like. Vol-au-vents, mini quiches, that sort of—"

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Hudson. I need a gift."

The change was instantaneous. It didn't matter how old the fairer sex became- at heart, they were always the silly, vapid teenager, dying to talk about another's love life.

"Oooh! A gift, you say? I suppose it's different when you're both men. I'd normally recommend lingerie, but—"

"I don't think John would wear it."

Mrs. Hudson giggled, blushing slightly. "Never mind, dearie, it doesn't matter. How about a nice jumper? You know how John loves his jumpers! Or a tea set, that's very English! I saw a lovely one in Fenwicks a while back…gold rims, it was so quaint!"

"Aren't they a bit feminine?"

"Well, have a bit of a nosy in town then. I'm sure you'll find something, Sherlock— you usually do!"

* * *

><p>On that day, Sherlock decided never to take advice from a woman who answered the phone "You've reached Hudson Headquarters" again. Honestly, the woman was bizarre, and she clearly had no idea about gifts.<p>

First he tried jumpers, but apparently his knowledge was limited. Lambs wool, cashmere, plain wool, bobbled wool; and the patterns. Oh dear Lord, the patterns.

The sales assistants had been less than helpful. Of course he didn't know what he was looking for. Why on earth would he seek assistance if he knew what he was doing?

Next was a tea set. Again, his knowledge was limited. Wedgewood was good, but apparently so was Ginori. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how it changed the taste of the tea anyway; perhaps it was something to do with indentations in surface area creating more oxygen bubbles, or something like that. He'd have to investigate in the future.

Tea was only bearable when John made it for him.

A lot of things were only made bearable by John…

* * *

><p>Wednesday arrived quickly, and John awoke with little expectations. Turning thirty-four was nice, but birthdays were really for children. Of course Harry would get him a present, but knowing her it would be a bottle of wine or whiskey. He had no other family, no real friends… and he doubted Sherlock even knew when his birthday was. Did that even count as useful information?<p>

He dressed in whatever clothes he lay on the foot of the bed last night—an old army habit he never quite got out of—and head to the living room.

There, he found Sherlock, reading a newspaper. A French one. Interesting.

"Morning. Fancy a cuppa?" John asked.

"Yes, thanks. You have post."

John groaned. "Right."

He walked to the table with a mountain of cards on. John shuffled through them and smiled a little. There were a lot more than he had anticipated.

He sat next to Sherlock on the sofa and handed him half. "Help me out?"

"With what?"

"Just open them and tell me who they're from."

"I can tell just by looking at them."

John laughed. "No you can't."

Sherlock picked up the first envelope and examined it for about a minute. "The handwriting is shaky, the writer wasn't nervous though; most likely controlling urges. This card came with a bottle of alcohol, as can smell the faint scent of whiskey. This card clearly came from a recovering alcoholic. So far, so dull. Pink envelope, clear sign of a female, means a more sentimental card is inside, so family. Obviously an alcoholic female family member means it can only be from Harry."

John opened the card and grinned. "Happy birthday little bro, love Harry. Wow!"

"You sound surprised."

"Do another one!"

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Alright. Hand me one."

John had a little hunt through the mound of cards and selected a pastel peach envelope. He handed it to Sherlock.

"The pen used was a fountain pen using Indian blue ink. There is little splattering near the actual letters, meaning this is someone apt at handwriting paperwork. The splatters at the end of the envelope, however, indicate someone who had to hurry this card, so someone with a job with a regime that involves some paperwork. So, someone who works at Scotland Yard."

"All that from a pen?" John cried.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Isn't it obvious? Anyway, that doesn't tell us who it is."

"Sorry. Continue."

"As I was saying, they work at Scotland Yard. Pastel envelope- very feminine. Yet, it smells distinctly of men's aftershave. We're looking at a man with a female partner. So, we narrow that down to people you socialise with… and this is from Lestrade."

John laughed and opened the card. "Have a good one, mate, love Greg and Charlotte." Sherlock started to get up. John grabbed his arm. "Wait!"

"What?"

"One more?"

Sherlock sighed and picked up white one. He examined this one longer than the other two. "White envelope means definitely male. Handwriting leans slightly more to the right, and is haphazard in formation; clearly not someone who hand writes often. Considering how plain it is overall, I'd say it was someone who working purely on guesswork. A male, guessing which card would suffice who doesn't write often… this card is from," he smiled and handed John the card, "me."

John looked up at Sherlock, smiling a bit. He felt slightly giddy about receiving a card from Sherlock. He tore open the envelope and gazed at the card.

It as a simple card; cream, blue border, and 'To my friend' written in a cursive script. He opened it and couldn't contain his grin.

_To my blogger,_  
><em>I don't know exactly what to write. Happy Birthday is customary according to Mrs. Hudson, but that seems frightfully dull.<em>  
><em>I hope today we chase a psychopathic criminal half way across London. I know how much you love the dangerous ones.<em>  
><em>Love,<em>  
><em>SH<em>

"Sherlock… this is really…"

"Good?"

"Good."

Sherlock nodded and reached behind him. He pulled out a silver package. "A gift, I am told, is customary too."

John grabbed the gift, suddenly feeling more excited for his birthday than he had in years. He ripped the paper off, to reveal a leather-bound journal. He flipped through the pages, and saw a spidery JW watermark in the bottom right corner of each page.

John could feel a lump in his throat forming. "Thank you. I really, uh, appreciate it. It's… wonderful."

Sherlock went on to list how he deduced he would like it, from his favourite pen, to his sentimentality, to how he worked out he had a "thing" for leather. Honestly, the man was too talented in his deductions.

Still, despite the overly logical approach he had taken to choosing such a loving gift, John couldn't help but think it made the gift more personal.

Sherlock actually paid attention to him. With all the useless information in the world, Sherlock didn't consider knowledge of John amongst it.

Unable to control his elation, John hugged Sherlock. It was brief hug, but possibly the most intimate moment they had shared. And they both knew it.

"Right, uh, you wanted tea?" John asked, blushing slightly.

"Change of plan. I'm going out. Happy birthday, John." Sherlock left the living room and head to his bedroom.

John smiled brightly, and hummed 'happy birthday' to himself. Perhaps today wasn't such a bad day after all.

* * *

><p><strong>So, this is Chapter 2. There is no real chain of events. Just assume time has elapsed unless otherwise indicated.<strong>  
><strong>Thank you all for your kind reviews!<strong>  
><strong>Reviews are welcome for this chapter, too~<strong>


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